Stripes.

This is my second entry out of five for Cal's character contest. Reviews are welcomed very warmly. Here goes

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014: Stripes.

The hospital is calm, dark, and quiet; like a sleeping creature breathing heavily with machines instead of lungs. The old man has been moved to a side room. No one speaks of the reason, but it is perfectly clear; he has been placed in this room to die. It is just after midnight, but he is wide awake.

He tosses and turns in his bed, every movement sending another jolt of pain through his body. He doesn’t care; the physical pain is nothing compared to the hurt that is running through his mind. He knows the end is near now. Images of his life are running through his head incoherently. Somehow, every happy memory he used to have has vanished; only the black and gruesome ones are left.

His oldest son is standing in the father’s study. He pulls off his shirt, knowing what is about to happen. His father locks the door to the living room. The boy’s mother is in there, pretending to be busy with her ironing. A tear falls onto the striped shirt she is straightening and she quickly lets the hot iron run over it, making it vanish.

Everyone has been contacted. They have been informed of his condition; they were told that he was dying. No one has showed up. There are no flowers on the nightstand, no cards from old friends, no family members gathered around his bed. No one there to stroke his cheek, telling him it will be better soon; it will be all right.

His son looks him in the eye for a short moment, and then turns around the way he knows he is supposed to. He has given up the fight long ago; he knows it will only make the punishment harder. His father’s face is indifferent as he picks up the thick leather belt. He pauses for a moment, knowing that waiting for the pain can be as painful for the son as the belt itself. Then, suddenly, he whips it across the son’s back. The boy moans, but doesn’t scream. He will take the pain for as long as he can, but after ten or fifteen strikes he won’t be able to hold back his scream. His mother’s lip quivers as she dutifully keeps ironing the shirts of the husband who keeps hurting her firstborn. The youngest son, the weak one, is always left untouched. As if the oldest is being punished for being strong. The boy in the study is on his knees now, begging his father for mercy. Only when the stripes on his son’s back are bloody, the man puts the belt down.

“Oh God,” he whispers as the memory causes a jab of pain to run through his broken body. “Oh, dear God!” he calls out, his voice now loud and hysteric.

A young, male nurse is in the room within 30 seconds.

“What’s wrong, sir? Mr. Morgan? What is happening?” he asks, but the old man is in no condition to answer.

“Stephen!” he shouts, desperately grasping at the young nurse’s uniform. The nurse hesitates for a moment, and then catches the old man’s eye. “Stephen! Is that you?” the dying man cries again, his voice rasp. He whimpers; there is no doubt that the end is nearing now. The young nurse takes a look around the room; no one else is around. He glances back at the dying man and then makes a decision.

“Yes.” He says, “Yes. It’s me, Stephen.”

The lie instantly calms the old man down, tears now flowing freely down his cheeks. Tears of apology, pain, and regret.

“Oh, son..” he mutters through the tears. “Oh, my dear son. Daddy’s so sorry, Stephen. Daddy’s so sorry,” his voice is little more than a whisper. He’s rattling now, his eyes rolling around in his eye pits, but his hand is still grasping onto the nurse’s shirt, pulling him closer.

The nurse exhales, he is in doubt of what to do.

The dying man is gasping now; his life is drawing to a close. His eyes find those of the man he believes to be his son.

“Forgive me,” he manages, “Please, please for-” he isn’t able to repeat his plea.

The nurse looks down at the desperate face and mercy fills him.

“I forgive you,” he says without knowing what crime has been committed. The words trigger something in the dying man. Still panting, he leans back, closing his eyes.

His lips part, ready to speak but there are no more words to be said. The grasp loosens and his hand falls down, lifeless.

There is a peaceful expression on his face, the guilt from before is gone and he looks calm.

“I forgive you,” the nurse repeats as he closes the eyes of the empty shell of a man in front of him, convinced that the old man might still hear him, wherever he is. The ward falls quiet again, carrying one less soul in its arms.